


Gallows God

by Killtheselights



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, KylOdin, Norse AU, Norse Mythology - Freeform, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Reylo Charity Fanfiction Anthology, Shieldmaidens, Suicide, Written in the style of an epic poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 04:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17257859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killtheselights/pseuds/Killtheselights
Summary: Allfather, Lord of the Æsir, Chieftain, Lord of the Hanged, Wayweary, Mover of Constellations, Terrible One, Ruler of Heaven. He has many names. She had only one. But he called her Worthy.





	Gallows God

**Author's Note:**

>   
> __  
>   
> Moodboard by literal goddess[Flawlesssorcerersupreme.](https://flawlesssorcerersupreme.tumblr.com/) Thanks, Lyssa!
> 
> Happy 2019 Everyone! Only a few more sleeps until EpIX!
> 
> I humbly present to you my contribution to the 2018 Reylo Charity Fanfiction Anthology, _Gallows God_ , a Norse Mythology AU in which Kylo Ren is cast as Odin the All-Father and Rey's just there, being a boss ass bitch like usual.  
> I also beseech the pardon of those who are more well-versed in Norse lore than I am; I had multiple reference books open while writing, but even so, Norse mythology research is hard, and I tried my darndest for accuracy. But in general, my take on the mythology is like the Marvel Cinematic Universe Norse mythology; close enough to serve a narrative purpose (though please note I didn't actually use the MCU for a source).
> 
> Anyway, without further ado, stoke a roaring fire and grab your mead. Things are about to get epic.

Have you looked into his eye? The one that remained?  
I don’t know which is darker. The iris of the remaining sight or the crater where the wisdom lies.

  
He alone knows what he would sacrifice.  
But she could see it.  
She alone read it in the runes carved on his face.  
He had done this himself.

  
He has many names. You alone know the one you shall call him when you see him striding on the battlefield. You should know better than to say anything.  
All heads turn. The venerable dead are his. The rest...  
You know not to look at him, look too closely at his face, not to catch yourself in his withering stare. What’s left of it.  
You see your own fate. You witness your own death.  
Or so they say.

  
They say a lot about him.  
They say he’s been around since the start of it all. They say he started it all. His blade struck first. He is the father of War.  
They say he gives. He protects.  
But it has come at a cost.

  
He did not yet know of her when he slipped that noose around his neck.  
He braided it himself, wove the fibers as he sat beneath the World Tree.  
He wanted to know the secrets. He envied knowledge he could not have.  
What would you give?

 

His uncle was the guardian of memory. He knew all things past. His wisdom was boundless.  
The god wanted to learn it. He would drink from his well. He would have this wisdom for himself.  
The journey was perilous, and his body was worn. His hands were bloodied as he offered them to his uncle in supplication.  
His uncle would not let him. It was not his to have. If not yet, then not ever.  
The god would not yield.  
“Name your price.”  
He commanded sight. “Your eye.”  
The journey had cost him dearly.  
What was one piece more of him?

  
What would you give?  
Some say he used his own blade. Maybe it was his uncle’s.  
He carved the eye out of his skull with his jaw set, determined. No whimpering. No gasps of pain. He gouged it out indelicately. Some scars don’t fade, even on gods.  
They said he looked upon himself one last time as he held his eye, the vision fading.  
His uncle merely smirked.  
“You have given too much.”  
The eye floated on the surface of the well, the iris warm and dark. It remembered, it seemed. It judged.  
As it sunk to the bottom, his uncle drew a ladleful of the water.  
“This is what you wanted?”  
“Yes.”  
His uncle looked at the ladle scathingly, then back at his nephew, the newfound hole carved in his face, dark and bleak as death. The red oozing down his cheek, skating across his jaw toward his chin, pooling rubies on the ground at his feet.  
“Is it worth it?” his uncle asked. A taunt more than a question.  
The god looked at him, his lone eye blazing.  
“We shall see.”

  
Who first told him to die?  
Did Yggdrasil name its price?  
Was it the tree itself that whispered to him on rustling leaves as he stood in its shade?  
He knew the cost.  
Did he know he was to return?

  
Who knows what the water tasted of. Experience, perhaps. Maybe regrets, the strictest teachers.  
But the water of wisdom passed over his lips and the truth was known.  
He grabbed the ladle from his uncle’s hands, and drank deeply, making sure no single drip spilled over his chin.  
Maybe he missed one lonely drop.  
That is why he found her.

  
What was the noose made of?  
Hair, perhaps. Hair of enemies.  
Vines from trees, ancient and wise and more beautiful than the ones we see today.  
Too obvious, some say.  
Memories. Lives. Wishes. Visions. Each of these a different horrible prospect.  
Were these the strands he wove?

  
He saw too much.  
His head could not remain as full as it was.  
It was clouded with voices and nightmares and phantoms.  
The trade demanded a higher price every day.  
There was no rest for the half-blind god who saw too much.  
And then he decided to stop the noise.  
He drew his blade and cut off two of his long black plaits.  
Each fell to the ground, and as it uncoiled, it revealed a large raven, wings black as night, eyes hollow but threatening with their knowledge.  
The first was called Huginn. The first was his thought.  
The second was called Muninn, for memory.  
They were not in his head anymore, and his mind was silent.  
They could only peck at his skull when summoned.  
It was a relief.  
They were sent out into the world.  
They watched.  
Did they spy her first?

  
She was a shieldmaiden.  
Before that, a vulture.  
The orphan girl who flitted about the battlefields, plucking the remaining valuables off the recently deceased.  
She did not mind the smell, even as it clung to her when she left the death-plains. The colors of gore were as beautiful as paints or rich fabrics to her. She was unafraid to weave a tapestry of bile and blood and bone. It kept her alive.  
There was no dignity in it, but no dignity was granted her.  
Is that where she first looked on him?  
An omen.  
Stalking through the empty fields, he surveyed the dead. Which half would he take?  
She rose to her feet and stared at him.  
Did she look upon him with fright? Defiance?  
Were her small fists clenched at her side, her trembling chin raised skyward?  
She looked into the hollow of his eye.  
She did not look away.

  
They say he welcomes you.  
They say Valhalla is worth it. A noble death is worth it every time.  
But is he worth it?  
Only cowards ask that.  
Make your death worthy.  
Face him.  
Gaze into the crater where the eye was.  
It is worth it?

  
His uncle, his emissary, did not return alive.  
Sent on a mission for his nephew, only his head came back.  
They say it was an act of vengeance by his enemies. Not all are certain.  
Maybe his uncle should have been more generous with wisdom, or should have sipped of it himself. His fate might have been different.  
The Allfather received the head with silent acceptance.  
Maybe there was sorrow there. Maybe it was an act of war, after all.

The gods don’t die as we do.  
They are too valuable to let rot.

  
The god kept his uncle’s head with him. The herbs he used to embalm the head, the charms and incantations, kept the head of the wise god alive.  
Did the uncle watch the nephew’s tender ministrations?  
They say the god learned nine magic songs; did he sing one of them then, a low dirge, deep and slow and haunting?  
Were the dead eyes able to see, they would have marked the mournful scowl on his nephew’s face as he rubbed the oils over the decaying skin.  
And it came back to life.

  
From then on, the Allfather was never alone. His uncle’s wisdom would not leave him.  
Even if he wanted it gone.  
He sought the head’s counsel often, but more frequently, the advice pouring from the dead lips was unwanted.  
He should have known.

  
The scavenger became shieldmaiden.  
She gazed at the god on the battlefield, and looked into the hollow eye, and there, there she saw the truth she had feared.  
Night fell.  
She drew up the weapons left behind by one of the Allfather's glorious dead, too large and heavy for her young arms, and she dragged them behind her.  
She wore a new tapestry in the darkness, one of blood, yes, and of the family she had long since lost.  
She would no longer pick at the spoils of war.  
She would make them.

  
Her arms grew stronger, and soon she did not need two hands to wield the blade.  
She was a strong woman. Mercenary.  
They say she bore her own shield.  
They did not believe she was human.  
She became a legend.  
Surely she was Æsir.  
If she was Æsir, she would not stop at the end of every battle and survey the field. She would not count the dead.  
She would not make so many dead.  
If she was Æsir, she would not be waiting.

  
She wove a new tapestry.  
She made the thread.  
She let flow the red blood.  
She loosed the white, the splinters of bone.  
She created the brown, the decay. The rot.  
She no longer waited for the family she had lost.  
She waited for him.  
You could always tell where she'd waited by the gifts she left behind.

  
Muninn did not know her. She was not in his memory. Or any memory.  
He thought not of her. Huginn could not help her.  
She looked for the gods, who looked not on her.

  
As she had many times, she sought the advice of the old man.  
“He will come,” said the old general. “Just you wait.”  
The shieldmaiden had learned about the soldier as a child, knew of his heroic deeds. She sought him out for guidance. He told her she didn’t need him. She was far beyond what he had ever been.  
But she asked him if the tales were true, and he would tell her. He never stopped telling her. She believed his stories were true.  
With a twinkle in his faded eyes, he always told her she would see.  
One afternoon, she helped the old general chop trees from the forest for firewood. She dragged the sturdy ash across the field for him back to his house while he told her a story.  
It was her favorite. He had saved a comrade on the battlefield by trickery and cleverness, the gifts of Loki. He had done it out of the judgment of Tyr, the strength of Thor, the courage of Baldr. She could even tell the general the story by now.  
He would change the details just to see if she was still listening to an old man prattle on.  
As this retelling of the story concluded, she did something she had never done before: she asked a question.  
“Is your friend angry with you? Does he wish he died a worthy death in battle, that he could have been chosen to go to Valhalla?”  
Very little surprised the general. This did.  
“Angry? He got to live a long life with his wife and sons!” The general chuckled. “There are few worse fates than Valhalla, child. I pray you never live to see them.”  
His words rankled her, and she could not find out why. Her mind ached at the grim possibility he posited, contrary to everything she had ever known.  
She found herself more determined than ever to face the Allfather, and now she knew just how.

  
The gods had heard of the Shieldmaiden by now. Thor was impressed by her strength. Tyr by her judgment in battle. Loki by her wit. And Freya, even Freya was amused by the warrior’s beauty.  
But the head of the Æsir thought not on her.  
It was the missing eye, they said.  
He was blind to little else but her.

  
The old general was awakened by a sharp pain in his side: the young woman’s boot, aimed squarely at his hip.  
He didn’t have time to process what had happened. She dropped his axe at his side.  
“Defend yourself,” she commanded coldly.

 

This part is hard to tell.  
She exchanged blows with him with her own axe. She followed him out into his fields, into the forest.  
The old man, well past his prime, fought valiantly, as if his bones and sinews were still new.  
Had she gone mad?  
Some say he knew. He knew the moment her foot connected with his side just what she planned.  
Others still say it was the general’s idea all along.  
They say he smiled as the final blow connected with his chest.  
They say he loved her.

  
After countless battles, the old general lay still, blood staining the snow.  
And when the Allfather came, she sat beside the still-warm body, an axe in each hand, and a single tear frozen to her cheek.  
This was what she had waited her life for.

  
“The girl I’ve heard so much about.”  
The blind god had seen her work across battlefields. Had met her valiant dead. Yet he had not seen her.  
Until now.  
Until she sat before him, a slight smile on her face.  
Muninn sat on the god’s one shoulder, pecking at an errant feather. Huginn flapped his wings in dismay.  
She stared into vast darkness where the eye of the god once roved.  
“If you have heard of me, why have you not come to face me sooner?”  
“I have heard of your deeds, but none know of your name.” The way Huginn and Muninn shifted, it was as if he had shrugged his broad cloaked shoulders. “But you seek me more than I have sought you. Why?”  
She rose suddenly, her axes hanging at her side.  
“You, Allfather, keeper of Valhöll, god of war and warriors, have erred, and owe me recompense. You have neglected your duties and cast my parents into Helheim when they should be dining at your side.”  
He crossed his arms. “This is a new story. Let me hear it.”  
She stammered. She had imagined many scenarios when she finally tracked down the god, dragged him by the collar of his cloak, and brought him to face her while she spat his crimes in his one-eyed face.  
None had gone like this. His countenance, impassive under dark brows, coupled with his cool indifference, was disarming.  
Many nights she had lain awake imagining how it would feel to finally demand the truth of the god. She imagined he would fight her, accuse her of treachery, and she would have to demand him listen to her at the point of a blade.  
His lone eye just scanned her.  
“My parents were warriors,” she began, her voice softer than she had imagined it would be. “And they died in battle. They fought valiantly, back to back. I waited for them to return, but they never came back from the war. I have asked the Æsir for assurances that my parents died worthy. And none will tell me they have seen them in Valhalla.”  
She swallowed deeply.  
“I consulted the seers. They say the same. I gave them my blood and they looked into the world tree. My parents are in Hel, Asagrim. They did not deserve this. They deserve to stand beside you.”  
He considered her, his one eye roving, and then his expression seemed to soften.  
“What are you called?”  
“I am Rey the Shieldmaiden.”  
“You are that, I see. And what are your parents called?”  
“They died too long ago. I don’t know their names.”  
He nodded. “They will know you, though?”  
“They will.”  
He nodded again and stepped away. He conferred with his ravens, and then one at a time they spread their large, night dark wings and took flight.  
“I have sent them to find for me the truth. Muninn will search Midgard for evidence of their deeds, told in mead halls and in the blood of the earth. Huginn will fly to Hel herself and seek for them there.”  
His eye returned to her, sweeping across her face.  
“If I have missed warriors, then I shall make amends. The worthy should drink and feast with me. I will not have the valiant lost to time.”  
“Thank you, Farmagnuðr.” She dropped her axes then and lowered her head in deference. Her eyes rose to him.  
“They deserve to stand beside you. I know this.”  
They say the old god had never seen a human woman look at him with such conviction.  
She did not fear the vast emptiness in his face as lesser men did.  
They say the look he returned her was one he had not given a human before: affectionate.  
Affection, if nurtured, that would become love.  
“My ravens will return in time,” he said. “Until then, you may accompany me.”  
“Where will we go?”  
“Wherever I am called across the Nine Realms, you will go, too.”  
She looked back at the body in the snow.  
“And what of my friend? Will the Valkyries come for him?”  
“He does not wish to join me.”  
Her head shot back to him in shock.  
“You can’t mean that.”  
The god smiled. (They say it’s beautiful; a blessing, if you ever see it.)  
“He and I have spoken many times. My company is not desired. He would rather be in Hel.”  
“Who would want such a thing?” she asked.  
“A general who has had enough of mead halls and valor and just wants peace.”  
“That will not be me,” she declared.  
“We shall see,” he said, and without another word, he offered her his hand, and together they crossed the rainbow bridge, to see whatever a god could wish.

  
This is what passed deftly between his fingers as he sat beneath the World Tree:  
Secrets, crossed over sorrows, pulled between hope.  
Pull them tight.  
Too tight. It has come undone.  
You have become undone, too.  
Begin again.  
Take as much time as you need.  
This is your funeral, after all.

  
This is the part most embellished. This is the part some choose to forget. This is the part where many simply invent their own tales; this is the part of the story where the truth dies.  
This is where the story diverges. Every teller has their own take, and few details are agreed on.  
There are many versions you can tell.  
There are some you keep just for the children.  
You encourage them to be valiant, courageous.  
You can start by telling them they traveled far, far as any mortal could wish.  
He took her between the worlds, to see what men only whispered of.  
It was as if she were becoming Æsir after all.  
He took her to the forge of the Dark Elves, and let her see the masters of their craft building artifacts that no human could imagine. She did not cower. She felt the heat of the great forges, and smiled.  
The Dark Elves owed the god a favor. He asked the craftsmen to make her a sword, and the two watched as they heated the finest metal and cast a weapon heavy enough to slay her mightiest enemy, but light enough that she could bear it without stumbling. The sword seemed to be made of the light itself.  
She did not know how to express gratitude for this gift, given to her by the cause of all her woes.  
But she expressed her thanks, regardless (you must remember that children are impressionable!).  
There are versions you tell young soldiers, to prepare them to meet their fates. Remind them of the Allfather, Grimnir. Remind them of the Shieldmaiden. Command them to be honorable. Show them how to be worthy.  
He took her to Jotunheim, the realm of giants. The lands were beautiful and wild and the god had to glamour himself and his companion so they could travel easily. The shieldmaiden was not afraid, however, and found herself assisting the god in stealing back a treasure from an old rival buried deep in the mountains; it was the kind of adventure warriors only dreamed of. She did not need her sword, but used her wits, as sharp as a trickster’s, and managed to pluck the treasure from the trove of the giants while the One-Eyed God used his wise tongue and fine mead to distract the one guarding it.  
And yet across the lands, through trials, she found herself becoming more endeared to the war god.  
There are stories women tell each other, mother to daughter, sister to sister. The elders to brides. Teach them to love.  
As they traveled, they told stories. Hers were of wars she fought, of becoming a warrior of her own right. Of trials and survival.  
Envy the shieldmaiden. Who knows what tales the god told.  
Who knows what drops rained on her from the fountain of wisdom. He who gave his eye for wisdom, they said, gave it for free to the beautiful warrior.  
One can only assume the wisdom she gave was so valuable to him that he was compelled to share his own.  
Perhaps the god had other reasons.

  
They say at the start of the journey the god would keep watch while the shieldmaiden rested a distance away, tending to a fire. Before she would wake the ravens would return, one after the other. Huginn would return from Hel, cloaked in the scents of death and decay and remorse, and would report what he knew, the moans of the dead, the imprinted memories of lives lost. Then with a sharp flap of his wings, he would fly back to the underworld.  
Muninn would return later, much later, after the drinking had ceased for the night, smelling of alcohol and camaraderie and unfounded boasts, and report the stories heard at the mead halls, both the ones bellowed with pride and those whispered hurriedly over the rim of a tankard. Muninn, who had little to report, would fly away, chasing the night as it crossed Midgard.  
But then the god would sleep, leaving a respectful space on the ground between himself and the shieldmaiden.  
Nights passed. Realms passed beneath their feet. They crossed the Bifröst, the rainbow bridge between worlds, and the distance between them seemed to vanish.  
Her rage at the god who betrayed her parents slipped into comfortable companionship, then affection. As they spoke by the firelight, she ran her fingers through his long black hair, plaiting the locks into braids that any warrior would be envious of.  
One night, as she carded her fingers across his scalp, his hand caught hers. Their fingers touched.  
They recognized something in one another; they say he saw the divine in her. They say she saw the humanity in him.  
If you tell this story, be wary of your audience, because the details can be quite salacious.  
But it depends on what version you tell.

  
It’s tempting to say that the god brought the shieldmaiden into his bed, as gods often do. That he took the shieldmaiden for his own.  
That’s the bawdy version, told by careless tellers with no regard for poetry or narrative.  
That interpretation just doesn’t seem to fit with the rest of the tale.  
You can tell a better story than that. And you should, you always should.  
Your audience deserves it.

  
When you tell the story, it might help to describe how the god would wake every morning and discover the shieldmaiden had inched closer to him in the night.  
Bit by bit, night by night, she would move nearer to his warmth, until he woke one morning to find her, curled up against his side.  
He didn’t know what it meant at first. He was aware of her hatred towards him, but he did not fear death at her hands.  
He had hoped that their journeying would soften her heart to him, but he couldn’t imagine a fondness could emerge from a heart so battle-scarred.  
But he felt her body tucked in close to his on a warm summer night, and knew that even the wisdom of the gods couldn’t help him to see what was directly in front of him if he continued to choose not to see.  
And that is when he grabbed her fingers as they tugged at his hair, taking them in his.  
A caress of the god.  
She knelt to his level and pulled his mouth to hers.  
(She should always instigate, if you care anything for the art of storytelling.)  
The god could not hide his own yearning, and he revealed it as he kissed her deeply.  
And this is the part you skip before children, and you whisper to new brides; grandmothers tell it with the most energy.  
They tell how the night air sang as the she pulled him to the earth, peeling off layer after layer of armor until he was bare.  
Her hands skating across his skin made her believe he was almost a man.  
Who knows what glamours he had over himself. Who knows what she saw when she looked at him. Who knows what sides of him he allowed her to see.  
It’s easy to guess that she saw a different god than we can even dream of.  
But she saw something beautiful. Desirable.  
Perhaps she saw his true self.  
And the icy fury she harbored for him for so many nights melted in his embrace, as she touched the god where no human had before felt the Æsir.  
When he was satisfied by the gifts of her mouth and hands, she permitted him to undress her in the light of the moon, and he became the first god to worship a human woman.

  
You can say their love caused the mountains to tremble. You can say that a spring sprouted from the spot where they made love, to show the endless spring of desire they felt for one another.  
You can say these things, but you don’t need to lie or embellish; their story can stand on its own.  
Just say that he kissed her wherever his lips felt bold enough to travel, and the god who saw all through his one eye never wished for another sight so beautiful as her, head thrown back in the ecstasy of him.  
And she, the woman who took a god as a lover, still wanted more than he could give her.  
Though when she lay curled at his side, satisfied and panting and laughing as he pushed her damp hair out of her face and kissed it, he made her feel more wanted than she had all her life; he was enough.  
He was worthy.

  
The god was dressed as fine as it would be expected for someone of his status, of his military accomplishments, of his legacy, but perhaps the armor he wore was too fine for the occasion.  
You can, it seems, overdress for your own funeral.  
He started first with his gloves, and began to carefully remove his layers of armor and clothing. He cast his boots aside to free his legs, his feet splashing in the water at the base of the World Tree. Bare before the universe itself.  
Did he shiver as he looked upon the branches, the ancient limbs on which he was to die?  
Did he wonder if it was worth it?

  
The distance between them vanished. She woke before the sunrise in his arms. She had never let another body so close and let them live.  
His lone, wise eye was shut in rest, and his countenance was strangely beautiful.  
She saw the ravens waiting in the distance. Perched on a tree, they considered her for a moment, assessing her, before they flew off.  
They did not whisper to the god that morning.  
They gave him one last moment with her.

  
The dawn came, and with it, the comfortable affection grew between them.  
“Where should we go? What would you like to see?” he murmured into her ear.  
“Unn, love,” she whispered into his lips. “There is one place I still haven’t seen.”  
“And where in the nine worlds is that?” he asked with a chuckle. “Where should I take you next?”  
“Valhalla. Can’t you show me?”  
He tried to keep the dismay from his voice.  
“My love, I cannot show you that.”  
“Whyever not?”  
“You are alive,” he said. “That is no place for you. Not yet. But it will be.”  
He wrapped his arms around her, bringing her in closer to him. “You will be einherjar in time. The honored dead. I will not let you be otherwise.”  
His words were sweet and tempting, but she wanted to see. She had to know.  
“I want to see where my parents will go. I need to know what waits.”  
He had no idea what to say. There had never before been a living mortal to whom he had been close enough to be asked such a favor.  
But there was no way to bring her to the great mead hall while she still lived.  
But there was a way to make her his. Have her join him for all time.  
He could make her a Valkyrie. Immortal. Courageous. Ever-worthy.  
He would tell her of his schemes soon. He would offer her immortality.  
He just needed the right moment.  
“Soon, my love.” His hand skated gently along her arms, tracing over old scars. “You have my word.”  
The word of the god.  
Is it enough?

  
The shieldmaiden dressed in silence, contemplating the god’s words.  
She finally spoke as she donned her last piece of armor.  
“I will go for water and firewood. I will return soon enough.”  
Her intimacy with the god was too much. She could not stand to remain so close to him without knowing what she craved to learn. She needed space.  
She turned and strode off toward the meadow.  
The god watched her go. Soon. She would forgive him soon.  
He finished dressing himself as the sun grew high in sky.  
Huginn and Muninn swooped down, assuming their usual perches on his shoulders.  
The news they whispered into each ear was worse than he had feared.  
His lone eye grew wide.  
The ravens had delivered grim news before. Never had the god taken it with such distress.  
He sent them away.  
He could not dismiss them in time.  
The shieldmaiden was near enough to see them depart. This time, they did not separate, but flew together into the distance.  
She returned to the god, her gait eager. She dropped the firewood she carried in her excitement.  
“Svidrir, what did they say?”  
He stood frozen. He searched through the wisdom of the realms, and yet…  
Her eyes locked on him. He knew he could not lie to her.  
Her face fell, but then determination came to rest on her brows.  
“What is it?”  
She walked towards him. “You must tell me.”  
He could not deny her that.  
Even if it would destroy her.

  
He tossed one end of the noose as hard as he could.  
It missed the branch, and fell back down at his feet.  
He shuddered. He picked it up.  
Again he hurled the noose. It draped over the sturdiest, tallest branch his lone eye could see.  
He picked up the noose, wrapping it around the branch. He threw it again. And again.  
He watched it wrap around the branch of the world tree, until it was too high off the ground for him to reach.  
He admired his handiwork while he still could.  
He began to climb the tree.

  
“When did you hear your parents died valiantly in battle? Do you remember where or when?”  
Her brows furrowed at his question. “I’ve always known.”  
“Your parents...what do you last remember of them?”  
“Bragi, I’ve told you already. I remember them going off to battle and never coming back. I waited for them to return. Why must you ask? What more could you know of me that you cannot already see?”  
The warrior had returned. She was prepared to fight him for the information he tried desperately to conceal.  
She was slipping through his fingers like water through a net.  
The time for tenderness had past. A heat, stronger than Muspelheim, the realm of fire, grew in his belly. He needed her to stay.  
“You want to know what I found? You want to know why the seers saw your parents in Hel?” His voice was no longer gentle and beseeching, but the warlord calling an errant soldier back into the fight. “Look into your heart for the truth. Your parents are in Hel because they did not die in battle.They drank too much and thought too little and became caught in a blizzard. They died drunk and penniless, lost in a snowbank. They were never warriors. You should have known. Or have you always?”  
Her eyes were obscured by tears.  
Tears of pain she had held close to heart for many years. Tears of loss, of sorrow for the parents who had left her to fight for herself at a young age, the parents who abandoned her. Tears for the old general’s sacrifice. Tears for herself, poor wretch that she was.  
She turned away. She did not let the one-eyed god see.  
Her agony touched him.  
Do gods have hearts? Maybe. If he had one, it would have broken.  
He could not let her go.

  
Gods do breathe.  
The one-eyed god took a deep gulp of air as he surveyed the world one last time.  
He felt a chill wind brush through his hair, against his bare skin, gooseflesh rising on his back and arms.  
He tightly gripped the spear in his hand. He clutched at the noose around neck, making sure it sat properly. He had made it to fit him. It had to work.  
He exhaled. He brought his toes to the edge of the branch.  
He thought of the knowledge he sought. What he would give for it.  
He pierced himself in the side.  
With a howl of pain, he jumped.

  
“Please.” He reached out for her. “This doesn’t have to be the end for you. You don’t have to return to battle, die worthy. I can take you to Valhalla now. I can make you immortal. A Valkyrie. Come with me. Be worthy.”  
She turned back to him, tears dripping down her chin, sobs shaking her shoulders.  
He offered her his hand.  
“Please.”  
A god never asks twice.  
He would ask her as many times as necessary.

  
Nine days was an eternity to wait between life and death. Death would not yet come; a destination would need to be chosen for him before he could depart. The gods came to offer him sustenance. But he would not take it.  
So he lingered in the balance.  
He stared into the dark waters, day after day.  
The runes would not appear to him.  
He had to be worthy.

  
You must tell the story that you want to hear, but one thing must always be true.  
She must never go with the god.

  
When he offered her his hand, you can say she slapped his hand away.  
She railed against the god for the pain he put her through.  
She screamed against the death and war he brought with him.  
She cursed him for everything he was, and what he could not be.  
The wise god was a fool, bringing destruction and death, not the love he showed her.  
In this story, she leaves the sword he had forged for her.  
She grabs her pack and storms off.  
She finds a new village in Midgard, one that never knew of the shieldmaiden, of the bloodshed she wrought.  
They say in the town she found a former soldier, a handsome young man who had sworn off the war. Sworn off killing. Wanted a new life, one of peace and happiness. One where the wounds he had sustained in battle would not define him.  
She made a home with the former soldier.  
She made a family.  
She never thought of the god again, but he watched for her. Went from battlefield to battlefield to seek for her again.  
She shooed off ravens that came to her home. Occasionally she would draw a weapon, in case the god was thinking of her.  
They say she went happily to Hel to seek out her parents once more, to apologize to the old general, and to wait for her children, artisans and farmers, who would join her one day.

  
The moral of this tale?  
Warriors should be strong. Women should be gentle.  
It’s not a good moral.  
It’s not a good tale.

  
This is the version that wounds.  
This is the version that teaches.

  
He offered her his hand.  
“Please.”  
She fell to her knees.  
He knelt beside her.  
He reached for her hand.  
In this story, she grabbed the sword he had given her, light but powerful.  
He could only watch as her hand reached for the blade at her side, and plunged it into her gut.  
“I,” she gasped as the tip pressed into her stomach.  
“Will never,” she sputtered, pushing the blade in further.  
“Be worthy,” she choked, the blade vanishing into her as blood pooled in her mouth and colored her lips, bright as rubies, beautiful and grim.  
He wailed in regret. The earth below them trembled.  
She collapsed, smiling as the life left her, beginning her journey into Helheim alone.

  
He could have stopped her, pulled her away, but the god was too stunned.  
His one eye and all his wisdom could not see that what she wanted was not with him.  
The shieldmaiden was powerful and beautiful and selfish, maddeningly selfish.  
She wanted only for herself, for the life she had created in her furious imagination.  
The god was not any better.  
He saw the cold steel in her eyes as the life flickered out of them, and he gazed into the harsh reflection of himself.  
He knew exactly what she wanted.  
He knew why she did what she had to.  
He did not hate himself less.

  
Nine days passed.  
The runes appeared to him.  
The knowledge came to him.  
He pulled the spear out of his side, and cut the rope above him.  
Down he fell.

  
What he knew now, was it worth it?  
Was it worth the nine days of near death?  
Did he see what he needed?  
Would the knowledge ever be enough to satiate him?

  
He carried the body of the Shieldmaiden back to his keep.  
No charms or incantations could restore the life of a human gone to Hel.  
He tried the songs of magic, keening and tear-stained, to no avail.  
He asked his uncle if anything could be done, but the head offered no counsel.  
It only smiled sagely, savagely.  
There is no rest for a dead god.  
There is no rest for the worthy dead.  
There would be rest for her.  
They say he strolled through Valhalla, her body in his arms, the worthy dead watching the god cradle the body, now deemed unworthy, through the hall before he carried her over the Bifröst, back down to Midgard.  
The worthy dead watched her pass through them. Many knew of her deeds and looked upon her lifeless form in shock. She had sent many of them there. They watched her silent procession in awe, still at last in the god's arms.  
He had to let her see it, even if her eyes no longer saw.  
He kept his word.  
The one-eyed god who had hung from the World Tree built his lover a pyre of ash, and as night fell, he laid her body over it, her sword resting between her still fingers. The flames licked at her flesh, chipping away at the now-lifeless form that carried the spirit of the woman he had loved.  
As the smoke rose into the night, he had a vision. A nightmarish flash of a world to come.

  
They say he saw the end.  
He saw the Twilight of the gods as the dawn rose over the smoldering remains of the pyre.  
He saw the Fenris wolf break free.  
He saw the serpent devouring the world.  
Ragnarok. The end of all things.  
He saw the dead rise out of Helheim.  
He saw her again.

  
The time will come for the sky to split.  
For the sun and moon wolves to stop their chase in the sky.  
For the chain gods to be freed.  
For the World Tree to shake.  
For the one-eyed god to walk freely into the land of the dead, to find the human woman he had loved.  
The era of gods to end.  
For the Allfather, it will all be worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't have the option for "Major Character Death: literally everyone" but yeah. So it goes.
> 
>  
> 
> **A quick reader's guide for those who aren't familiar with Norse mythology!
> 
> Kylo is Odin. All the names used are, to the best of my knowledge, real names for the chief Æsir.  
> The story of the hanging on the World Tree is actually mythology. Odin hanged himself for the knowledge of the runes. That image is what inspired this story.
> 
> Luke is playing the role of Mimir. The story of Mimir's head is really a part of Norse mythology. Odin embalmed the head and consulted with it. I thought that would be a fun tie-in to the Star Wars universe.
> 
> Shieldmaidens are real, though none like Rey exist, to the best of my knowledge. She is fabricated. Han, the Old General, is as well.
> 
> The story of Ragnarok, the Twilight of the Gods, was recently brought to you on the big screen by Taika Waititi. 
> 
> For continued reading, I recommend Neil Gaiman's interpretation, but I'd love any additional recommendations.
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you could drop me some feedback before you go, it would be much appreciated.


End file.
